Not Even Once: Failure Version
by ParadiseAvenger
Summary: Meth Awareness. Part Two of Three. Failure Ending. It all started on the night of the rave. He found her and got her in rehab. He thought she'd get better, but... she didn't. Dark. Partial AU. Adult Themes. Different from original one-shot.
1. Sam

Alright, first of all, this is a **Meth Awareness** one-shot.

Everyone MUST go to this website! **www. montana meth. org** If anyone is too lazy to remove the spaces, there's a link in my profile. But I have personally SEEN the sick shit Meth does to people. _Watch the commercials, read the print ads, and look at the pictures! _

And by all means, **spread the word**!

As you can tell, I am very passionate and righteous about this subject.

_**WARNING**_**: DARK FIC! **_all the way through_**. This is the ****"**UNHAPPY ENDING**" version****. **

There's no _nice_ way to write this. _Meth does some fucked up shit to your world!_

…

This is a short Danny Phantom one-shot because I needed the character background between the three friends. Sora and Kairi and Riku have some background, but not enough to really make the story meaningful. (The opening is also very similar to the most recent commercials made by Montana Meth Project because I really liked it, but after that it's all me.) I might dig out some creativity and do one for Tsubasa and Kingdom Hearts, but for now this is all I've got.

Most of this is the same as the original except a small "_This is…_" added to the beginning here and the unhappy ending. 

X X X

_This is the joint where we used to hang out._

The Nasty Burger sign was half out. A few neon letters flickered hopelessly, buzzing and whining like something from a horror movie. It looked like it should be saying _No Vacancies_ above a disgusting seedy motel, but it's always looked that way. Yet, happy teenagers still bustled in and out of the swinging glass doors without a care in the world. No one cared anymore. Laughter owned the wind, leaves rustled in the beautiful trees, and the sky was crystal-clear opium blue.

_This is the place where she first tried it._

The rave in the old rundown warehouse was aglow with pulsing strobes and black lights. People were laughing and jumping, dancing and moshing, screaming and singing. The music was like a second heartbeat, pulsing and throbbing. Bodies practically shook with the force of the bass and everyone was dancing, high and happy. One by one, the lights went out until there was nothing but darkness left. That was all there was anymore, after all.

_This is what she used to pick imaginary bugs out of her skin._

He was looking for her again, searching her room in her broken home even though he knew she wasn't there anymore. The faucet was dripping sluggishly, echoing. Bloodied razors were lying on the edge of the sink. Blood had gathered like thick red wax around the drain. There were nail clippers and tweezers lying out, all gory and blood-smattered. He didn't know what she had been using them for. Only that her skin was coming apart.

_This is where she forced Tucker smoke it with her._

It was the playground where they had all first met. No one went there anymore. The swings were rusted and creaky and the vibrant plastic equipment in the new playgrounds was still old baking metal here. The slide loomed into the sky like an old cold claw, sweeping down to earth like a suicidal dive. The merry-go-round wouldn't spin anymore. The trees shaded everything in a cloak of darkness, taking it away from the real world. This place… was practically a nightmare now.

_This is where her dealer raped her._

It used to be a hospital, but it was nothing anymore. The walls were coated in peeling paint, the windows were thick with dust and grime, and the sink in one of the haunted old bathrooms was continuously dripping thick brown water. The place was littered with forgotten paraphernalia from another century and the current hell in this one. They said ghosts roamed those halls, but it was really just the spirits of the people that she left behind… including herself.

_This is where she beat up her best friend._

Under the bleachers where they used to sit and watch football games on Friday nights, a few beams of dirty light were slanting in. There were footprints in the old dried mud and the impression of his body where she had thrown him down in her paranoia. He could never have brought himself to hurt her, but she could hurt him. Oh yes, she could hurt him. But it wasn't her fault, he told everyone, she didn't know what she was doing. Right?

_This is where she started selling her body._

Finally, a home for the Nasty Burger's flickering broken-down neon sign. It had one of those big dumb green motel signs with the big burned-out letters and no real name, just one of those anonymous places where people like her could disappear. It had a creaky iron staircase and wobbly little balconies with twisted wrought-iron rails. Inside the rooms were sagging queen-sized beds covered in hideous spreads with who-knew-what caked on them. The sheets were scented with sex and sweat and burning. Light came in through the grimy curtains and water ran in the shower. There was more blood and flesh in the sink.

_This is the corner where he found her again._

It was a cold day. It was snowing. The soft white flurries were floating down as if they wished to completely encase the world in ice, to preserve it. People were bustling along on the street—Christmas shopping, chatting, and laughing. No one paid any attention.

_And this is what I said when she told me she was going to try Meth._

Someone—her best friend—was there on the phone with her, planning their escape to the rave that weekend, but there was nothing but the crackle of silence on the other end of the phone line. He didn't say anything.

"Danny?"

Nothing, silence, nothing…

…

It was hard to believe, anymore.

But, they used to be happy. They used to share cheesy fries and veggie burgers and get milkshakes after football games on Friday nights, but then everything changed after the night of the rave. Nothing was good anymore. Everything was different, worse, terrible, awful, hideous, broken…

Tucker was in rehab and he was the lucky one.

Danny was broken, out looking for her.

And Sam… Sam was dead.

…

The warehouse looked like a ghost house from the outside, but lights burned inside. (The lights burned but no one was home.) The beams of colored sugary light played on the big grimy broken windows and pulsing music drifted out. It looked like something out of some kind of movie.

The rave was nothing like Danny had expected. It was loud and flaming bright. Someone was standing on stage, spinning an array of candied lights so that she looked like all the holidays mixed together. Her partner was all gauzy goddess fabric like butterfly wings, all papery and fake. People were slamming into him from all sides, bouncing him off of Sam and other people. They had already lost Tucker in the crowd, shouting over the music somewhere behind them. The strobe lights made his head swim and he couldn't hear his own voice over the music. His heartbeat felt drowned out by the throb of the music.

"Sam!" Danny shouted as she slipped easily through the crowd, getting farther and farther away from him. "Sam, wait!"

"I love you!" Some girl was sticking to Danny, hanging off his shoulders, breathing in his ear. Her body was burning up, smoldering hot like she had a fever. She was high on Ecstasy, voice sugary sweet against the shell of his ear as her hands pawed down his chest. "I love you," she said again.

Danny had lost sight of Sam. She was somewhere in the throng of dancing people, looking like every other Goth girl though she had never looked that way to him before. She always stood out to him, but here… She wore too much black and her purple blended in with the ultraviolet black lights. He couldn't see her.

"Sam!" Danny shouted, reaching out through the people around him.

That girl was still on him. She was holding him back, laughing and crying out, clutching at his shoulders and shirt. He shook her off, hearing her make a sound that was pure disappointment and then say again to someone else, "I love you!"

"Sam!"

Danny was only in time to see her put the pretty spun-sugar fake-looking glass pipe to her lips, inhale in a way that didn't seem possible with the glass bubble on the end, and blow out white steam. He never saw her eyes darken, dilate. "Sam!" Then, she was all smiles and cheer, face glowing with confidence that he had never seen in her before.

"Come on, Danny," she laughed. "Let's dance. Don't look so glum." She grabbed his hands and spun him around, head tipped back and grinning from ear to ear. Her lips were pursed, painted glossy purple, and her onyx hair was feathering on her pale skin. She looked beautiful, but…

Her flesh felt hot and sweaty and he almost wanted to pull away. "Sam," he murmured, voice lost to the music.

"Don't worry. I'm only going to do Meth once."

That was what she said to him.

Then she was lost in the throng of beautiful people and he was left standing there alone until Tucker finally caught up with him, found him in the mess that was this party. Tucker felt cold, the chill from his fingers was seeping into Danny's flesh through his clothes. Danny couldn't speak and Tucker didn't say anything.

Life went on, but it was all over… just like that… like the snap of fingers, like the flick of a light switch, like the breaking of bones.

It was all over.

She was all over.

Sam was already dead.

…

It had been almost a month since the rave and Sam was steadily slipping away. They saw less and less of her. Her grades had dropped. Her skin looked pale and waxy, washed-out and ashen, and she looked like she hadn't been sleeping. She had lost weight, clothes hanging off of her body. Then, she just stopped coming at all.

Sam slipped away from them.

Danny felt sick a lot.

Tucker was losing his cheer.

…

It was Friday. The morning dawned grey and rainy with a thick blanket out clouds covering the sky, hiding the sun. The pavement was damp and puddles reflected the heavy hideous grey sky like some kind of impending doom. The air smelled fertile though, like flowers could be grown in it, like soot, like moist earth. The scent was like a silver lining, making the world seem less bleak. In the distance, the thick black storm clouds crackled with lightning and claps of thunder.

Sam hadn't been in school for almost a week.

Danny and Tucker were getting worried.

"I have a doctor's appointment after school," Tucker repeated as he and Danny headed to sixth period. "I really wish I could go—"

"Tucker, we've gone through this three times," Danny said with a heavy sigh. "I'll stop by her house on my way home and check on her. I can go by myself, honest." He pulled the door to the classroom open, allowing a few girls in before him and Tucker.

"I know, but—"

"You're not being a bad friend. You have an appointment. I'll go."

Tucker didn't say anything, just looked at the floor and shuffled to his seat.

Their last class seemed to drag on. All Danny did was stare at the clock and Tucker clicked his pen restlessly. A few people around them cast dirty looks their way, annoyed by the clicking of the pen and Danny's absently tapping fingers. The teacher called on Danny a few times, got no response, and finally gave up.

At last, the bell ran and school let out.

Danny and Tucker left together, but turned in different directions once they got off campus. Tucker got into his mother's car and Danny headed off to Sam's house. If he had known then what he was going to find, maybe he would've brought Tucker along with him. Then again, maybe he would have rather gone by himself.

Sam's house was a beautiful old-fashion redbrick Colonial with white shutters and trim and a glossy black door with a big brass lion's head doorknocker. Danny knocked and waited patiently for someone to open the door. Sam's mother, a surprisingly prim and proper lady with rich honey-blonde hair to Sam's darkness and violet, answered the door. Normally, she wasn't very happy to see him, but today his presence appeared to make her nervous.

"D-Danny?" she asked.

"Hi, Mrs. Manson. Is Sam in?" Danny asked, ever polite and sweet. "She hasn't been in school that past few days and I wanted to check on her."

Mrs. Manson shuffled nervously, hem of her pink and white dress touching the floor. It looked like a nightgown, but she didn't look as if she had been sleeping. "I… I don't know where Samantha is."

"You don't know?" Something must have shown in his face.

Mrs. Manson paled and closed over the door as if to hide behind it. "She went out," she said almost nervously. There was a small tremor in her voice. "I don't know where she is," she said finally. Then, she slammed the door in Danny's face.

The bronze lion head glared at him fiercely as if banishing him from the doorway.

Disturbed by her actions and words, Danny knocked again, never one to be pushed away when his friends were concerned.

Mrs. Manson opened the door again, but seemed shocked to find him still standing there. Her eyes were glassy, swollen, and welling with tears. "Danny," she croaked. There was something horrible lurking in her voice, fear and horror and pain.

"Where is Sam?" He hated the tremor in his own voice. "Where is she?"

A sob wracked Mrs. Manson's body and she opened the door to him, turning her face away. With a shaking hand, she just pointed towards the stairs, towards Sam's bedroom. As he passed her, Danny saw a bruise around her wrist, a handprint. It was too small to be from her husband. It was more the perfect size to be… Sam's hand? A knot formed in his throat, choking him.

"Where is she?" he found himself repeating.

But Mrs. Manson only collapsed into hopeless sobbing. She didn't even point towards the stairs anymore, just crumpled in on herself like wet paper. Danny bolted for the stairs, suddenly inexplicably terrified for Sam and her family. He passed Mr. Manson on the stairs, but the man didn't even spare him a passing glance. He looked catatonic with deep dark bruise-like circles under his red-rimmed eyes. His normally pressed clothes were wrinkled.

Danny slammed open Sam's bedroom door, crying out her name, but he didn't get very far. He tripped over something spread out on the floor in the dark, something that clattered and spun, and fell on his face. Sam's blinds were pulled and her room was pitch black. Fumbling for the light switch, Danny flooded the room with light. Other than the fact that her room was messy—clothes spread all over the floor, makeup out on the vanity dresser, bed unmade—her room looked relatively normal.

Sam was nowhere to be seen.

He dashed to the bathroom, flipping on that light as well, and immediately collapsed to his knees, choking and gagging. He didn't recognize the little animal sounds that were coming from his own throat. Spread out across the vanity was a sickening array of bloodied things. She had taken apart her razor and the three blades were scattered across the vanity. One was laying in the sink in a puddle of blood and tattered flesh. The other two were laying side by side on the rim. There were tweezers with hair and flesh caked in them, nail clippers with hunks of flesh caught in the blades, and wads of bloodied tissues with more skin and hair in them. The cream-colored vanity was stained with so much blood. It was even running down the cabinets under the sink. It looked as if someone had stood at this sink for hours, picking themselves apart.

Half-sick, Danny clutched his stomach, trying to get a hold of himself. He took a few deep tremulous breaths.

This must be some cruel trick.

This couldn't be _Sam_… her room, her bathroom, her house, her parents…

It must have been a trick, some fucking sick trick. It couldn't be her!

Sam was only going to smoke Meth once.

She wasn't going to become one of those pictures he saw in movies and magazines—faces torn apart, sores and puss, tattered flesh, picking themselves apart… _addicted_, dying.

Danny stumbled to his feet, gripping the vanity to pull himself up. His hand stuck in the dried blood and the tweezers clattered into the sink so loudly that the sound startled him. Jolting, he bolted from the Manson's house like a frightened animal. Mrs. Manson was still weeping on the floor and Mr. Manson was still staring at nothingness when Danny ran out.

He wanted to call Tucker, but he couldn't…

He just couldn't.

…

Tucker was sitting on a swing in their favorite playground when they were kids. The swing creaked as he moved like some ancient animal, unhappy to budge. A cold wind howled through the looming slide and whistled through Tucker's jacket, chilling him to the bone. Behind him, the dark strip of trees thrashed and moaned.

Danny was gone again.

Actually, Tucker didn't see much of Danny anymore. Danny was always gone, out looking for Sam, never giving up. He looked like a shambling zombie fresh from the grave. His skin had always been pale, but now he looked dead. His flesh was stretched over his bones so that he had the visage of a skeleton. His dark obsidian hair was lackluster. His body was down to the bare minimum, just skin and bones with that thin bloodless flesh. Worse, his baby blue eyes that had always held so much life and promise were more like glass marbles than eyes anymore. They were empty.

There was rustling in the bushes behind Tucker, but he ignored it. It was probably just a stray dog. There seemed to be a lot of them now.

"Hey, Tucker…" a familiar voice rasped close to his ear.

He jolted, practically flying from the seat of the swing.

It was _Sam_!

And she looked like shit. Her dark hair hung in strings around her face, raggedly cut as if she had simply been ripping it out. Her mouth was chapped and bloody and she had sores in the corners of her lips. There was a place on her face where all the flesh had been torn away. She was covered in bruises, like she had been beaten up, and her clothing hung off her skeleton thin body. Her eyes were what shocked him the most. The amethyst orbs were half-crazed, bestial.

Danny looked like a ghost, but Sam…

Sam looked like a monster.

"Sam!" Tucker gasped out. "You scared me. Where have you been?"

She slid into the swing he had leaped from and began to sway back and forth. "You know, _around_…" she said. "Trying new things… broadening my horizons…"

"We've all been worried sick. Your parents are a wreck. Danny's a wreck. He's out looking for you right now."

She was quiet for a moment. "You want to know the truth, Tucker?"

No, he wasn't sure he did, but his mouth was ahead of his heart. "What?"

"I've been smoking Meth. It's _good_."

"Sam, that shit is bad for you. It has Drain-O in it."

"Have you ever tried it?"

"No!"

"Then you don't know how good it is…" She pulled out a small glass pipe from her tattered coat pocket, put some crystals in it, flicked her lighter, and inhaled with her mouth at the tip. Then, she blew it out in Tucker's face. It smelled disgusting, like something dead, but… that could have been her breath. Her teeth were yellow and sick-looking. "Try it, Tucker."

"No, Sam. You should come with me. There are people that can help you. We can get you into a clinic. Danny and I will stay by you, I swear."

She stood up, licking her lips, biting the sore at the corner of her mouth. "Okay, Tucker, okay." Then, she held out the pipe to him. "Try it. Smoke it with me. If you still think it's bad, I'll go with you."

"Sam—"

"Come on, Tuck, I'm your friend. Just smoke it and then I'll go with you. I promise," she said. Blood rolled down her chin.

At that moment, Tucker just wanted to get her someplace safe so badly… He wanted Danny to stop being out in dangerous places at night looking for her. He wanted her parents to stop crying. He wanted to stop fearing that she was dead. He just wanted her safe, so…

Tucker took the pipe from Sam's cold hands and watched her heat the drug until it sizzled like something burning. Then, he put it to his lips and tried to inhale. It was difficult and it was just a small puff. It tasted horrible—chemical and bloody and rotten—and then, his head spun and the ground rushed up to meet him. He saw the pipe go bouncing off into the high brown grass, saw Sam's boots as she went to get it, and then his world went black. He remembered calling out her name, but when he woke up it wasn't to Sam.

It was to a haunting white hospital room with Danny slumped at his bedside, asleep, looking pale and half-dead and more than a little hurt. He could hear his parents and the Mansons and the Fentons talking in the hallway, talking about Sam, but they sounded very far away. He couldn't make out what they were saying.

He was so tired.

But, above all, he wanted another hit.

…

Sam walked through the deserted derelict house, footsteps echoing. She was shaking so bad. She _needed_ another hit. The walls were closing in on her. And there was that itching, the horrible scrabbling itching feeling just beneath her skin, like bugs were crawling on her, like spider webs were clinging to her skin. She scratched her arm, feeling that if she could _just get a little bit deeper_ the itch would go away. Dried peeled paint crunched underfoot and she could hear the sink dripping somewhere. Hardly any light came in through the windows.

Finally, she saw the dark profile of her dealer just ahead of her in the hallway, leaning on the wall, looking as cool as the first time he had offered it to her. She felt him sucking her in. Don looked slick and sensual, all deep mocha-latte skin and dark hair and dark alluring eyes.

She hated blue eyes anymore.

"Hey, Don." Her voice came out sick and twisted and childish, like a lost little girl. She giggled at the thought and scratched the side of her neck, feeling wetness as flesh sloughed off. She wasn't a little girl anymore.

Fuck you, Mom and Dad!

Fuck you for never accepting me!

Fuck Tucker for not understanding!

Fuck Danny!

Fuck Danny…

She staggered over to Don, clutching at his coat, amazed at how sick and black her fingers looked. "Did you bring it?"

"Of course. Three grams for my best customer," Don said and looked down at her as if disgusted.

Sam giggled. "Three? How much?"

"For you…" Don wet his lips. "Free…"

Then, he attacked her.

The sick part was, she barely cared. If it got her Meth, he could do anything he wanted with her body.

She lay on that filthy floor, letting him kiss her and tear off her clothes. Don pulled down her jeans and her panties, tearing the elastic, and flung them. Then, he started clattering with his belt and chains, finally getting free. It felt like a long time to Sam while he did that. Then, he got between her legs and tore into her.

It hurt!

The pain was like nothing she had ever experienced in her life. The agony was white-hot, ripping through every molecule and fiber of her body, and worse yet… Don kept going. She realized she was losing her virginity here on the floor of a ramshackle abandoned house with a man she barely knew for Meth.

She dug her fingers into Don's shoulders and let out a scream of pain. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, running her black makeup into bruise-like shadows. She was sobbing and whimpering and writhing in agony beneath him like a small animal pinned down in a corner.

He only laughed. "I love this business."

Sobbing and whimpering, Sam didn't taste Danny's name on her lips when she cried out. She only felt Don's kisses and his teeth and his dick deep inside her. She felt everything falling away, splintering like the pieces of a broken mirror and flying away like shooting stars. Then, he was hot inside her and something spilled out. He wiped himself off on her shirt as if she was used and discarded. Then, he dropped the bag of Meth on her bared stomach.

After that, she didn't care anymore.

…

Campus was practically deserted, just a few people still lingered with friends and relatives. The ground was thick with mud from the previous night's heavy rains. Birds were chirping though and the sun was shining. Everything seemed okay, but it wasn't.

School was out. Graduation. It didn't feel like anything walking across that stage, hearing the speeches about his class and his peers.

He had graduated. Barely.

But, he was _alone_.

Tucker was in rehab, getting over the Meth addiction Sam had given him.

No one had seen Sam in a few months and it had been almost six months since the rave.

Danny had started wishing that they had crashed that night. He wished that he had been crippled, that he had broken his neck, that he had been jumped. Anything to keep them from going—even if it put him in the hospital, even if it killed him—but…

_They hadn't crashed._

He was sitting on the bleachers, alone, staring at the brown dead football field. There were no cheerleaders practicing. He had lost his taste for watching them. He was always reminded of Sam's sour jokes about them and of Tucker's laugh when he failed at flirting with them. A lone leaf crackled in the corner of the bleachers.

It felt like fall, not summer.

The world felt dead.

Then, he heard a voice he recognized.

Sam's voice.

Danny was on his feet before he could even think about it and bolting down the steps. He skidded across the slick aluminum, nearly falling, but grabbing the railing and throwing himself down the stairs that led to the area that was below the bleachers. There was a lot of trash and mud there and probably a fair amount of money that he didn't care about, but someone else did…

Sam was on her knees in the mud, talking to herself, searching through the muck for loose change that people had dropped during games. Danny watched, dumbstruck and horrified, as she found and quarter and shoved it in her pocket. She made a sniveling sound, half a cry, half a whimper.

"Sam?" Danny whispered, hardly believing his eyes. He had spent so many nights out trolling the streets, looking for her under bridges and in junkie dens, praying she wouldn't float in on the tide, and here she was rooting through the mud beneath the bleachers outside of school. "Sam?"

Her head snapped up, eyes wide and bloodshot. She looked like hell. Her face was scratched and bruised and smeared with black makeup. Her lips split and swollen and bloody and chapped. She was covered in sores and scratches where her skin was ripped apart. Some of her dark hair was sticking in the wounds, thick with blood in other places. For a moment, she stared at him without seeming to recognize who he was and the recognition never came into her face. She leaped at him, eyes wide and tongue sticking out like some kind of crazed animal. She tackled him to the ground, ice-cold hand in his throat, holding him down while she dug into his pockets for his wallet. Finding it, she bolted away from him, tore the cash from it, and hurled his wallet back at him.

A picture of them before everything happened fell out.

She stepped on it in her haste.

Danny didn't care about the money or the picture. All he cared about was Sam. He got to his feet, arms out in a placating gesture, hoping she would recognize him even though he had changed, fallen apart. "Sam?" he whispered.

She stared at him, licked her lips, and muttered, "Get out of my way."

"Sam, it's Danny."

"Fuck you!" she screamed. Then, he saw that her pupils were dilated to the size of olives—all black, darkness, lost. "Get away from me!"

"Sam, please, I'm here to help."

"Get away! Get back!" She pulled out a switchblade form somewhere and flicked it out. Her hands were shaking, all of her was shaking. "I need a hit," she muttered. Then, she was screaming again, "Get the fuck back!"

Danny did step back, but she dove for him, all screaming rage and drug-crazed-frenzy. They slammed into the muddy ground, his body taking the brunt of the fall. He held on to her, refusing to let her go, wrapping both his arms around her. She was all skin and bones and ice-cold and shaking. Sam was screaming, struggling, howling, and beating at his face and chest with her balled fists. Then, suddenly, she tore into his shoulder with that knife, plunging deep over and over again.

Crying out in agony, Danny tried to hold on, but the pain made his grip weak. Anguished, he clutched his injured shoulder with his good hand and rolled onto his side in the mud, feeling it sucking at his body. He stared at her desperately with his baby blue eyes, pleading with her.

Sam wrestled away from him, winding up in a crouch with her white coughing chest heaving. "You," she panted, "You stay the fuck away from me."

"Please, don't go," he gasped out. He would've sat up and tried to get a hold of her again, but that knife was dangling from her fingers and dripping his blood. He knew she would hurt him. "Sam, don't go. Tucker's in rehab because of what you did to him. You could go, too. You could go with him. We could get you through this." He made a pained sound. "I'll stay with you."

She glared at him, eyes all darkness. "Fuck you," was all she said and then she turned away.

"Please!" The desperation was raw in his voice. "Please, Sam! It's Danny! We're friends!" His voice cracked. "It's Danny…"

Sam spat out, "I hate blue eyes!" with her back still to him. Then, without looking back, she walked away from him. Her footsteps were hollow as she clonked away overhead on the cheap aluminum bleachers. The sound was empty and hollow like his broken heart.

…

Now, all Danny had was a scar, an old wound where Sam used to be.

…

It was a cheap motel on Stark Street. Gangs shot each other up at night. Junkies shot themselves up at all hours of the day. Prostitutes sold their last worldly possessions when they could, alternating between time on their feet and time on their backs. There was a redhead, too young to be alone, standing on the corner smoking and waiting to get picked up by some john that would beat her and fuck her and pay her. There were urchins living in the gutters—street kids and runaways, the forgotten part of society.

Sam practically lived in the seedy motel, laying on her back with her legs spread and rarely wearing clothes. It wasn't like she needed them anyway. She only left to get more or left the bed to dig the bugs out of her face. They were crawling around beneath her skin, living in her head. She hated that, hated them. The only thing that gave her pleasure anymore was the Meth. It was euphoria and it made her walk on air. What brought her down was the men that sauntered through the door, slipping in to her and making wretched sounds, but they put money in her hand.

Outside, the wrought iron stairs were creaking. Someone was coming up.

There was a knock at Sam's door. She wrapped the sheet around her naked body and pulled it open.

Don was waiting, grinning and looking smug. "Hey babe," he said. "I got you a real treat."

Sam purred, stretching herself along the length of him, feeling his hardness through his clean jeans. She asked what it would take and he put his hand between her legs. Per usual, he took her hard and fast. It felt like he was bruising the inside of her. Who knew? Maybe he was.

He didn't lay with her. He gave her the drugs and took the money and left.

Sometimes, Sam wished he would stay with her.

Sometimes, she hated being alone in this hellhole.

But she didn't think of Danny or Tucker or who used to be Sam.

Alone, she sat up, sheets slipping from her shoulders. She rubbed the bites there and scratched away a bug, digging into her flesh. Then, she fetched her lighter and her glass pipe and smoked some more. Happy and content, she lay back against the sheets and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

When she woke up, it was to a pounding on the door. He was ugly and fat with a big hanging hairy gut and his left eye wandered as if it was disconnected from the rest of him. She took another man into her bed, letting him do whatever he wanted to her for fifty bucks. She hardly felt anything.

The high was too sweet.

After he left, she crawled into the shower, laying beneath the burning hot stream of water and watching the filth swirl down the drain for a long time. She wondered when the last time she showered was, but didn't think about it for too long. Getting out, she didn't bother drying off. She walked naked to her filthy stinking bed, lay down, and slept again.

She never thought of Tucker or Danny or her parents or getting clean.

Fuck Tuck!

Fuck Mom and Dad!

Fuck running water and indoor plumbing!

Fuck clinics!

Fuck Danny!

Fuck Danny…

This was her life.

Wake up, get fucked, smoke some, enjoy, sleep, pick the bugs out of her face, fuck more, sometimes smoke and sometimes sleep, enjoy it if she smoked, pick the bugs out of her fingers, bleed, smoke, fuck, sleep. And the cycle continued on and on and on.

That was her life now.

…

Blistery winter winds were blowing in, bringing snow and ice and grey washed-out depressing weather.

Tucker was going to be getting out soon and it was going to be hard for him with such depressing weather, but Tuck had been clean for almost a year now. He was doing okay, but no one wanted to hire someone who had rehab on his resume.

But he was getting along alright.

_Hop along, Cassidy._

He talked to Danny at least once a week, listening to his friend's voice dropping and growing darker and more depressing. Sometimes, Tucker loved the safety and brightness and support of the rehab clinic, but he had to get on with his life soon. He had to get back out there into the big wide world.

_Shit._

He was scared.

He was scared that he wouldn't be able to stay clean.

He was afraid he would become a junkie.

He was afraid he would be like Sam.

He slapped that thought away, slamming the iron doors in his brain behind it. He couldn't think like that. He had to think he was going to make it, think positive, or he wouldn't survive.

And he had to think of Danny. Danny was out looking for her, still… again… as usual. Danny _needed_ to find her, to think she was okay.

Tucker looked around his room, making sure he had everything, grabbed his suitcase, and then stepped into the canary-yellow hallway. A few people hugged him goodbye—his group therapist, a girl who had come in the same time as him, a young man who reminded him a lot of Danny. But then, Tucker had to leave it all behind.

His parents were waiting.

He was going home.

…

Everyone said he should stop looking for her.

They said she wasn't coming back.

They said she was probably dead.

He _hated_ all those words.

Danny slouched deeper into his trench coat as he walked down the street, hunched against the icy-cold wind. Winter was coming and it was going to be brutal. He hoped wherever Sam was, she was at least warm.

Sam had been gone for a year and a half now.

It was sick really.

She had gotten Tucker addicted. She had stolen from Danny and stabbed him. She had had no qualms with hurting him, her best friend. She ran from him. It was clear she didn't want help, that she didn't care anymore, but Danny still thought about her.

She was his best friend. Still.

He hoped that she was alive and doing alright, but he tried to keep the hope to a minimum. He hoped she was warm because he knew she wasn't safe. He hoped she wasn't pregnant because he knew she was selling herself. He hoped he would find her one day and manage to bring her back.

He hoped a lot of things.

The first beautiful frosty flakes drifted down from the cold ash-grey sky. Danny stopped, looking up and catching the flakes on his face. He enjoyed the sensation of the ice melting on the heat of his skin, water beading up and rolling down his neck like the tears he couldn't shed.

He wasn't ready to let her go.

He wouldn't admit she was gone.

Every day he blamed himself, hated himself. He remembered the night before the rave. He remembered her saying that she was going to try Meth. He remembered his silence. He remembered not saying anything or doing anything to stop her.

"_Danny?"_ she had said.

And he hadn't said anything. Nothing… silence… nothing…

…

Danny found her on the corner, slouched deep in a ratty black jacket. She was shivering from the cold, nose running, and making small whimpering animal sounds. Her dark hair was plastered to her cheeks and bloodied mouth and caked in the picked-apart wounds on her face and neck. There was dried blood on her face and in her clothes. It was clear that her body was already half-frozen. She must have been selling herself, but no one was buying, not this close to Christmas. Christmas was family time, but she was Jewish and she was alone.

"Sam?" Danny whispered.

She didn't look up at him. She didn't even respond, just started chewing at her lips with her yellowed teeth. Within seconds, she had herself bleeding.

Danny pushed through the shoppers and pedestrians and crouched desperately at her side. He gripped her shoulders tightly in his hands, shaking her lightly and calling out her name. She didn't respond to him, gave not a single sign that she knew he even existed.

"Come on," he whispered. "I'm going to get you some help."

He cradled her in his arms, lifting her icy body from the cold concrete. A few people glanced at him as if disgusted, but he ignored them. He focused only on Sam, on holding her close, on watching the blood roll down her battered face as he walked.

The last time he had found her, he hadn't been strong enough and she had hurt him and then gotten away.

This time, she wasn't going to get away or hurt him. He was taking her someplace safe and he wouldn't be stopped.

It was time for Sam Manson to get better.

X X X

Everyone **MUST** go to this website! **www. montana meth. org** If anyone is too lazy to remove the spaces, there's a link in my profile. But I have personally SEEN the sick shit Meth does to people. _Watch the commercials, read the print ads, and look at the pictures! _

And by all means, **spread the word**!

Questions, comments, concerns? (Oh, reviews telling me I'm fucked up for writing this will be ignored completely, so if that's what you're going to say don't even bother reviewing.)


	2. Danny

**The ****Twelve Step Program**** to Recovery as Outlined by ****Alcoholics Anonymous****:**

Step 1 - We admitted we were powerless over our addiction and that our lives had become unmanageable

Step 2 - Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity

Step 3 - Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood God

Step 4 - Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves

Step 5 - Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs

Step 6 - We are entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character

Step 7 - Humbly asked God to remove our shortcomings

Step 8 - Make a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all

Step 9 - Make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others

Step 10 - Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it

Step 11 - Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood God, praying only for knowledge of God's will for us, and the power to carry that out

Step 12 - Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to other addicts, and to practice these principles in all our affairs

I will not be using these steps so _religiously_ in this story.

X X X

Sam woke up in a strange canary-yellow cheery little room with a big bouquet of white daisies at her bedside. She needed a hit. She was shaking something awful and she was cold. She tried to sit up, but something was holding her down. Desperately, she realized that she was restrained, tied to her bed with heavy Velcro straps. She opened her mouth and let out a scream, lashing and struggling against the restraints.

Then, there was movement beside her.

There was a young man, her own age she supposed, sitting at her bedside. He had been slumped over, maybe asleep. She stared at him, mouth open and no sound coming out for almost a full minute. She was unsure of exactly what she was seeing. He was handsome with dark tousled hair and radioactive ice-blue eyes and a sweet pink mouth with lush lips. She thought about fucking him for a moment and getting all the money he had in his pockets. She figured she would enjoy him—he was handsome and slender, beautiful—then she could throw him out and have a good hit.

"Hey Sam," he murmured and that mouth curved into a small strained smile.

Her voice constricted in her throat. "How… do you know my name?"

That small smile shattered like a porcelain plate knocked off the counter at breakfast time, going into a million pieces that skipped away never to be put back together into anything resembling a plate or a smile. "You… you don't remember me?"

She shook her head and the world spun dizzily around her. "Where am I?"

"I'm Danny Fenton. I'm your friend."

"I have no friends. Where am I?"

"Some place safe," he murmured. "I found you on the street. This is rehab."

"I don't want to be in rehab!" She struggled against her bonds. "I want a hit! I want out!"

Those blue eyes of his were so sad, heartbreaking, if she had a heart to break. "I'm sorry, Sam, but this is for your own good." Then, he stood up and left the room. His shoulders were hunched in, making him look small and broken. Then, he closed the door and her screams chased him down the hall.

Danny didn't run out, but he wanted to.

…

For a week, Danny came back every day and sat at Sam's beside, listening to her screaming and watching her struggle. Her parents couldn't come in. Mrs. Manson broke down before they even reached the parking lot, sobbing and howling like her heart was broken. Mr. Manson couldn't get out of the car if he made it that far, he just sat in the driver's seat staring straight forward, catatonic. Tucker had to stay away from the thought of Meth.

Only Danny could come.

Finally, after the hardest week of his life, her body had made it over the hump of withdrawal, but… Her body had stopped craving at hit, but that said nothing for her mind. Danny was afraid of the day they would untie her and let her out of bed. He was afraid she would run right for the door, for the street, cutting through him to get to her drugs again. But today, when he came in, she wasn't convulsing on the mattress like someone dying.

Today, she only looked dead.

Sam was laying on the bed, blankets snarled and twisted around her body. Her thin white coughing chest was heaving and she looked ghost-pale. Her dark hair was plastered against her broken skin. When he entered and went to his usual seat at her side, cradling a bouquet of dyed black carnations against his chest, she turned to look at him for the first time since he had brought her here. Her sad violet eyes were far-seeing and he wasn't exactly sure she was _seeing _him, but either way she opened her cracked mouth and spoke in a small ragged little voice.

"Hi Danny," she croaked.

His heart swelled in his chest to the point of breaking open, bursting. "Sam, you remember me?"

"Yeah. I remember I hurt you."

His hand strayed to his shoulder where there was a deep zipper-like scar. She had stabbed him with her knife when she had been digging for money beneath the bleachers at school. She had also stolen all the money from his wallet, but that didn't matter to him. He didn't even care about the aching scar in his shoulder. "It doesn't matter," he whispered.

"I made Tucker smoke it with me."

Danny's heart lurched. He could speak for himself, tell Sam that it didn't matter that she had hurt him, but he couldn't speak for Tucker. He didn't know if Tucker had forgiven Sam. "He's okay. He made it through rehab," Danny murmured.

She closed her eyes and seemed as if she had stopped breathing.

"Sam?"

She turned her face away from him.

"You can get through, too. I'll stay with you."

"I don't want to… I like Meth…"

"It doesn't like you. Have you even _seen_ your face, Sam?" His voice cracked as he reached for a mirror and shoved it in her face.

She stared into the silver glass as if uncomprehending. Her skin was white-pale, completely colorless, as if she was already dead. Her mouth was chapped bloody, flesh peeling off her lips. Her teeth were yellow and looked like they hadn't been brushed in a long time. She had picked all the flesh off her cheek almost down to the bone and there was a big black bruise across the side of her face where someone had punched her. Her dark hair which had always been glossy and beautiful was stringy and greasy and snarled into knots. "Is that me?" she whispered.

Danny watched her fingers curl and uncurl. "Yes," he whispered. Then he took out an old picture of them and put it beside the mirror so she could see the difference in herself. "Do you see what has happened to you? Meth did this to you…"

"You're lying," she choked out.

Danny shook his head. "Sam, you need help. Please…" He pressed the mirror and the picture into her hands, allowing her to touch them and see her own tormented face. "I can help you. I'll stay with you until you're better. I swear it."

"I won't get better… I'm not sick."

"You're addicted."

"I am not…" She turned her face away again. "There's nothing wrong with me. It's all wrong with you." She dropped the mirror and it shattered on the floor.

A nurse materialized at the doorway, took in Sam and then Danny's stricken face. She recognized Danny Fenton. He was here every day, watching and waiting and hoping. She had heard about him from Tucker, too. Gently, she put her hand on Danny's back and guided him from the room. She took him to the break room and put a cup of hot coffee in his hands. Then, she went back to Sam Manson's room to sweep up the mess of the broken mirror.

…

The next day, Danny returned again to sit beside Sam. Today, he had worn a tank top beneath his jacket. He wanted her to see his scar, the scar she had given him, but he didn't want to shove it in her face. He shrugged from his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. The carnations he had brought were already beginning to wilt.

"Hey Sam," he murmured and sat down. He rolled his shoulders, knowing she could see the pearl-white scar the followed the curve of his shoulder.

"What is that?"

"What's what?"

She narrowed her eyes. "That scar."

"You gave it to me. Don't you remember?"

"I needed the money." Her voice was cold and flat.

"So you stabbed me, your best friend?"

"I needed the money."

"I know you did, but isn't that a little strange?"

"I needed the money. I needed a hit."

"Bad enough to hurt me, your best friend?"

Her violet eyes welled with small tears and he watched her throat working furiously.

"Is it normal to do that? To hurt your friends?"

She moaned like an animal. "I needed the money. I needed it!"

Danny sat forward, searing her with his eyes. "Sam, you stabbed me!" He lowered his shoulder and pressed it into her bound hand, forcing her fingers to feel the deep crag of the scar. "I'm your best friend and you stabbed me! You stabbed me!"

She dug her nails into his flesh and he winced, but did not pull away. "Stop it! Stop it! I know it was wrong, but I needed it! I needed it!"

"But it was wrong?"

She started crying. "Yes, I know it was! I didn't care!"

Danny gently hugged her. "You have a problem, Sam. Do you realize that?"

She sobbed, but nodded slowly into his shoulder. Her tears were cold on his skin.

Danny smiled to himself and pulled back to show her the smile on his face. "That's the first step, Sam. You're going to get better."

…

Today was the day she got out of bed.

Danny was standing in the doorway, looking nervous and terrified, but she didn't run towards the door or try to throw herself out the window to get back to the street. She trembled and shook, but did not search for her drugs. Sam staggered over to Danny and he gently gripped her outstretched hands. She was weak and light and chilly to the touch. Goose bumps prickled across his flesh, but he smiled at her anyway. She didn't smile back, but that didn't matter.

Sam had gotten cleaned up—a hot shower, clean clothes, some good food in her belly. Her face was still picked apart at the seams and there were deep bruise-like circles beneath her violet eyes. She looked older and thinner, but she was still Sam. Danny would always be there for her.

Today was the day she started treatment.

There was a circle of plastic orange chairs set up and a long table of cookies and drinks pushed up against one wall. The group leader, Desiree Adams, was a recovered Meth-user herself with the age in her eyes. She had been clean for almost twenty years now. She knew what these people were going through. She knew how hard it was to quit, to get clean. She looked out over the assembly of twenty-six faces—pocked with sores, picked apart, bruised, beaten, sleepless, and far-seeing. She knew some of them wouldn't make it. Some didn't even have a fighting chance. Then, she saw a face that wasn't scarred by Meth, a face with hope and also fear in it.

"Hello," Desiree said with a small smile in the young man's direction.

He smiled back, detangled himself from the grip of a skinny downhill young woman with the brutal signs of addiction in her face, and walked right up to Desiree. "Hi, I'm Danny Fenton. I'm… not a user, but I'm supporting my friend, Sam. I hope it's alright that I sit in."

Desiree smiled at him. "Of course, Danny. They could use all the support they can get."

He smiled at her and returned to his friend's side, gently taking her white thin hand in his own. Sam had the darting eyes of someone who wanted to run, but was forced to stay by something they were unsure of.

"Alright everyone, come around," Desiree said. Once everyone was seated, Danny and Sam directly across from her, she offered them small reassuring smiles. "Now, we all know why you are here, but would someone care to tell me?"

No one spoke up. The entire group was silent.

Desiree sighed and said, "You are here because you have a problem. You are here to get help. Since you are all here, that means you have already made it through Step One. Step Two is about faith, hope, and realization. Any idea what that might mean?"

Again, silence.

Danny leaned over and whispered to his friend, Sam, but she turned her face away from him as if ashamed.

Desiree sighed again. This was the hardest part—getting them started. "We have to have faith in our Lord, hope we'll get better, and realize that we can," she said. "Well, that's what we're here to talk about today and when this meeting is over, I will assign you all sponsors to help you get through this very hard time. As a former user, I know how hard it can be to get clean, but I am also living proof that it can be done." She paused as if to let that sink in for a moment, then she smiled and said the legendary line. "Now, I'd like everyone to introduce themselves and tell us how long you have been addicted to Meth."

It felt strange for Danny to be sitting here in this Meth Support Group. Sam was holding his hand so tightly that he couldn't feel his fingers and everyone was staring at him. He felt out of place, like a black sheep in a flock of white. Finally, it came to be Sam's turn and then his. He stood up, which seemed to surprise Desiree, and introduced himself anyway.

"My name is Danny Fenton. I am not a Meth Addict, but I have watched my friends become addicted. One made it through and is clean now, but Sam—" he smiled at her softly "—she's going through now."

"Hello Danny."

Desiree smiled at him. The kid had spunk. Then, the smiled faded from her face and she cut her eyes to his friend, Sam. The girl's violet eyes were still darting wildly. She hoped, for Danny's sake, that Sam had enough of his spunk to survive.

…

Step Three was all about getting help from outside sources. Since Sam wasn't religious and never would be, her sponsor would be the main part of her Step Three. Danny had wanted to be Sam's sponsor, but Desiree insisted her sponsor be a fellow addict. So instead of Danny, Clyde was Sam's sponsor. Clyde was big and muscular and butch with blonde hair cropped short and a square face in dire need of a good shave. Danny was sitting on Sam's bed when Clyde came in and tossed his bag on the empty bed and flopped down on it.

"Man, I hate this place," Clyde muttered. "I can't smoke in here."

"You shouldn't smoke anyway," Danny said to him softly.

Clyde sat up, glared at Danny, opened his mouth, but then seemed to think better of it. "I'm only here cause I have to be," Clyde said sourly. "My brother's going to shoot me if I come to his house high one more time. He said he was going to throw me out unless I got clean."

"That's a good reason."

"No it's not! I'm a recreational drug user. It's just for fun. I'm not fucking addicted!" Clyde scratched his face. "Something's fucking crawling on me, man."

Danny shivered and clutched at the old scar on his shoulder where Sam had stabbed him.

…

Sam was lying on the floor of the tub, sobbing as quietly into her hands as she possibly could. She wanted a hit so bad she could taste the smoke of Meth in her mouth. The hot water cascaded down on her, pouring over her burning shoulders and making her self-inflicted wounds ache and sting. She started sobbing and scratching at her arms, tearing away the flesh. She was so desperate for a hit. She wanted it so badly. She just wanted to tear through the walls to get out, to get back to that seedy little motel room where she sold herself for money and drugs.

There was a small knock at the door and Danny's voice, "Sam? Are you alright?" What felt like an eternity went by as she sobbed and whimpered, muffling the sounds with her hands. Sam wondered if Danny was still there, standing on the other side of the door, waiting for her response.

She hoped he wasn't.

Sam let out a sob that she couldn't contain, so loud that it bounced off the bathroom walls. Immediately, the door opened. There was no lock on it—just a sign on the outside that you could flip between "Occupied" and "Open." Danny were standing there. He stood there for a moment, completely horrified. Then, he ripped the clear curtain back and dove in at her, trapping her scratching hands with his own. The burning water cascaded down over his back and shoulders.

"Sam! Sam, stop it!" Danny shouted at her. "Stop it! Stop it!"

She started screaming.

All the commotion attracted the nurses. They helped Danny wrestle Sam from the tub and tie her to the bed. It killed Danny to see those bonds on her wrists and ankles. His eyes were so sad and hurt, like baby blue pieces of shattered sky. Sam felt those eyes cutting into her, but she didn't have to feel them for long.

The nurses took Danny away.

Sam didn't watch his shadow as it vanished down the hall.

…

For Steps Four through Seven, Desiree asked Danny to sit out. She explain to him that they were all about looking inward and making a list of your own shortcomings. She suspected that if Danny was with Sam, she wouldn't tell the truth for fear of what he would think of her. Though he wanted to support her to the fullest, Danny listened to Desiree and did not sit in on the meetings. After the meeting, Clyde and Sam returned to their shared room. There was a note from Danny taped to the door. Apparently Tucker had come, picked him up, and brought him home for dinner with their families.

Wordlessly, Sam lay down on her bed and didn't say anything. With her eyes closed, she thought of Danny, picturing the way he slunk out of the room like a dog with a vicious master and a rolled-up newspaper chasing behind it. He was like a shattered little piece of the old him, of the bright-eyed laughing boy she vaguely remembered.

Clyde was on the phone, cursing and swearing at his brother. "Shut up, you dickhead. I'm in this place for you, now all I'm asking you to do is show the decency to come by with my woman and fucking _visit_ me! Can you do that for me, brother?"

This didn't matter to him.

He didn't care about getting clean.

Sam closed her eyes, pulled the covers over her head like she used to do when she was a child, and tried to ignore Clyde as he cursed and shouted at his brother. She could hear someone crying somewhere in the clinic. She had no idea how she managed to sleep that night, but it wasn't for very long.

She had nightmares.

…

"Today will be a short meeting," Desiree said in her sweet soft voice. "Step Eight: make a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends with them. Those of you wishing to proceed to Step Nine: making direct amends to such people—" Here, she looked right at Sam since Danny was once again sitting beside her in the circle "—should proceed at your own pace. So, I would like all of you to turn to your sponsors and speak aloud the name of the person you hurt most with your addiction."

Sam put her back to Danny and turned to face Clyde.

With a long suffering sigh, he took her hands and muttered, "My brother."

Sam whispered, "Danny."

Danny touched her, curling his fingers over her shoulder. She leaned back into his touch.

Desiree smiled at the pair and then cut her eyes around the circle. A few chairs were empty by now. Some people hadn't made it this far. She wondered if Sam would be one of the lucky few who made it and hoped for Danny's sake that she would.

…

"Um, could I talk to you for a moment, Danny?" Sam asked as he walked her back to her room.

"Of course," he said with a winning yet desperate smile.

Sam realized she'd barely said two words to him in the past three days. As an inpatient, she couldn't go outside, could leave the clinic. Since she seemed a little nervous, Danny led her to an open window and took her hands in his own. While she was gathering her thoughts, he took a moment to look at her. Her chalk-pale face had some color to it and the place where she had torn the skin from her face was beginning to heal, now flesh creeping in at the edges. Her greasy stringy hair had been trimmed neatly, but still looked like it needed a few more bottle of shampoo to get all the filth out. Her violet eyes were still far-seeing, but that may have just been because she was thinking. She didn't look like the girl her remembered, like his best friend, but she didn't look dead anymore.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" he asked after a long moment of silence.

Sam jolted, seeming to have forgotten that she was standing there with him. "Um, Danny, I know I hurt you and I just wanted to apologize," she forced out.

He smiled at her softly. "I know, Sam, I forgive you." He tried to draw her into his arms, but she pulled away.

"Don't," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because I… I don't deserve it… I don't deserve you."

"Sam, if anything, I don't deserve you."

"What?" Her question as more like a breath of shock, of air whooshing from her lungs.

"Yeah, you're so strong and beautiful and brave. If I fell into drugs, I don't know if I'd be strong enough to climb out."

_I don't want out_, Sam thought, _I want a hit_, but her mouth was silent while her brain spiraled out of control.

"Please, Sam," he whispered and then gently drew her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. She lay her head against him and listened to the beating of his heart and felt was warm softness of his skin beneath his shirt. Like she thought when she first saw him in the hospital, she thought of taking all the money from his pockets and buying drugs, but she didn't dig her claws into him and tear him apart. She couldn't.

Danny was her best friend _another lifetime ago_.

He hugged her closer and whispered, "I know you'll make it. You'll get clean. You'll pull through. I know you will…"

She pushed him back and looked up into his pale face. His breath was minty and moist on her face. He looked handsome, beautiful, alabaster-white and icy-blue and night-black. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes long and full and thick and hiding the expression in his face.

Danny wanted to kiss her, to tell her how much she meant to him but… he couldn't. He drew her into a hug again, tucking her head neatly beneath his chin to banish the temptation to kiss her wounded-looking mouth. Sam let out a sigh and held on to him tightly, pressing her cheek to his chest again and listening to his heartbeat. Her eyes filled with tears as she came to the realization that Danny was the only one who had always been there for her, been looking for her for so long, and he was the one she had hurt the most with her addiction.

"I'm sorry," she muttered.

"I know you'll get better, Sam," Danny whispered into her dark hair.

She didn't say anything, but Danny continued to hold her.

…

"You like him? Don't you?" Clyde asked Sam after Danny left in a brutal and sour voice.

Sam was lying on her side on her bed, staring at the space where Danny used to be, thinking of the scar he hid beneath his clothes. "What's it to you?" she snapped.

"Hey, we're sponsors," he said and sat down on the bed against her back. "We're supposed to _share_."

"I'm not sharing Danny."

"I don't want your boy-candy. I just want you to know that a guy like him with never stick with a girl like you. I figure that as your trusted sponsor, I should just warn you."

Sam sat up, shivering and glaring at him. "You don't know him."

"I know _of_ him. He expects you to be whatever you _used_ to be. He wants your past," he said nonchalantly. Clyde put his big hands on her shoulders and squeezed as if he was giving her a massage. "Do you think he'll stick with you once he figures out what you are?"

Sam jerked away, eyes flinty and narrowed into slits. "And you know what I am?"

Clyde nodded, mouth curved into a malicious grin. "Yeah," he said slowly, baiting her.

She was like a fish—hook, line, and sinker. "What is that?"

He cupped her shoulders again and turned her to face her reflection in the big mirror on the wall. "You're a junkie whore, Sam."

She tried to jerk away from him, but he held her firmly. He dug his fingers into her face, forcing her to look at herself in the mirror. He pressed his finger into the scar on her face where she had dug all the bugs out, put his fingers against her damaged mouth, and then ran his hands down her sides to rest on her hips.

She stopped fighting him, just stared at them together in the mirror. A finger of fear ran down her spine. She watched her throat working furiously.

"Danny ain't going to stay with you," Clyde said against the shell of her ear, into her hair. "Once he sees the you he knew was gone, he'll run away screaming. You're just a junkie whore now. When we get out of here, when he dumps you, come to me, Sam." Clyde's eyes were crazy in the mirror, flashing in the fading light streaming in through the open window. "I'll take good _fucking_ care of you."

Sam yanked away from him and lay back down on her bed, putting her back to him like a fortress of bone. She tried to sleep, but his words kept coming back to her. What if Danny didn't stay with her like he had promised? What if he did run screaming? What if she was alone?

"Danny's not like that," she whispered to herself.

Clyde chuckled in the other bed.

Sam ignored him, squeezing her eyes shut. "He's not… He'll stay… He won't run…"

…

The next day, they could leave. Some would be going to a halfway house, others would be going home, and some would go out into the big wide world on their own. Some would slip right back. Maybe a few would come back, most wouldn't, and some would die.

Sam was afraid to leave.

Danny had come to collect Sam and they were standing together in front of the clinic, waiting for Tucker to come pick them up. Danny adjusted her bag on his shoulder and gripped her hand a little tighter. She was looking around as if she wanted to bolt.

"Sam, it'll be okay," he said to her.

Sam stared at Clyde, feeling a cold sweat building up on the back of her neck. He gave her a gruesome smile and a little finger-wave and climbed into a big ugly red pick-up truck completely spattered in mud with naked lady black-and-chrome mud flaps. "How do you know that?" she whispered.

He squeezed her hand gently. "Because I'm going to be with you."

"What if you're not?" she asked, thinking of Clyde.

Danny actually looked surprised. His baby blue eyes widened. "Why do you think I wouldn't be with you?"

She stared at him hopelessly. "Never mind…"

"Sam—" Danny was cut off by Tucker pulling up and honking.

Tucker had a neat little station wagon in blood-red with soft leather seats. It wasn't his dream car, but he had learned to settle his dreams. Since his addiction, he had a different perspective on the world. It was a bleaker, but also somehow more hopeful. He stopped dreaming of dating a cheerleader. He started thinking about how he could save them from the in crowd, from the consuming popularity that would eventually destroy them if they weren't strong enough. He saw the world that way now—threatening but also full of wonder.

"Hey Tuck, thanks for picking us up," Danny said as he opened the passenger door for Sam and then hopped into the backseat with her bag.

Sam nervously slipped into the passenger seat beside Tucker. "Um, hi Tucker," she said softly.

Tucker gave her a small smile, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the lot.

Clyde made a 'Call me' motion as they passed him. Sam quickly slammed her gaze to the floor, curling her white hands into fists in her lap. Danny looked out the window, but Clyde only waved at him. Tucker didn't say anything, but he smelled a rat.

"Tucker, do you hate me?" Sam said flatly and suddenly.

"What?"

"Do you hate me for what I did to you?"

Tucker was quiet for a moment and Danny was holding his breath. Then, he put on his blinker, pulled over into the shoulder of the road, and turned to face Sam while keeping his fingers wrapped tightly around the wheel. "No," he said finally. "I don't."

"Why not?"

"I should have been stronger. I should have told you _no_, but I didn't. It was my own fault." He reached out to her, but she denied him a touch. "I don't blame you, Sam. I can't. You're my friend… still…"

God, she hated the way he said that. "You're my friend… _still_…" as if his friendship was a gift to her that he could chose to rip away at any time. She felt her mouth curl, her teeth snap down.

Danny put a hand on her shoulder, soft and warm. "He's right, Sam. We're your friends. We won't leave you."

She turned her face towards him and gazed into those baby blues.

"Yeah," she said finally. "Thanks…"

Danny smiled and then said to Tuck, "Can I drive?"

"No! You're a terrible driver!"

Danny laughed. It was a deep contagious sound that rattled deep into Tucker's core. It felt like forever since he had heard his friend laugh. He felt his own mouth curve into a smile in response. Beside him, Sam let out a small girlish giggle and then pressed her small white hands to her mouth. Danny reached around her and pulled her hands down from her mouth, freeing her laughter and smiles. They were all laughing, sitting in Tucker's blood-colored mom-van.

It wasn't the same as it used to be, but it was getting close.

…

Danny had intended to only walk Sam to the door, say hello to her parents, and make sure they didn't react badly, but once they got to the door, she broke down. She clutched his hand, begged him to come in with her, and he finally agreed. Her face was white with fear, fear of what would happen now.

Tucker didn't come in with them. The Mansons didn't like to look at him, to be reminded that their daughter had turned him into this—into a druggie, even though he was clean now. They still saw him in the hospital, laying there with Danny slumped at his side, exhausted by Sam and half-dead with fear. They remembered that it was Sam who did that to him.

Danny watched Tucker drive away. His chest ached. He had Sam back now, but nothing was right yet.

The Manson house was a beautiful old-fashioned redbrick Colonial with white shutters and trim and a glossy black door with a big brass lion's head doorknocker. The last time Danny was here, it felt as if the lion's head was snarling at him, but today it was simply smiling.

Mrs. Manson opened the door eagerly, as if she had been poised to spring just on the other side of it. She was wearing plain jeans and a pale pink blouse—no pearls, no jewelry, no shoes. Mr. Manson was sitting on the couch, clutching the paper in his hands. It was so wrinkled and smudged that he must have been holding it and sweating for hours.

Danny smiled at them. "Mr. and Mrs. Manson," he said gently, "Sam." He put his hand in the small of her back and pushed her gingerly into the house, closing the door quietly behind them and setting her bag on the foyer table.

"Um, hi," she squeaked. Her voice was small and mousey and cracking.

Danny gave her another small nudge because Mrs. Manson was frozen with her arms partially open as if expecting a hug. When Sam took those few stumbling steps towards her mother, it broke the spell. With a cry, Mrs. Manson enveloped Sam in her arms. They were both sobbing and crying and hugging.

Danny smiled softly.

Mr. Manson got off the couch and came up to him. "Thank you, Daniel," he said.

"For what?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"For bringing her home. You're the only one who never gave up on her, who always believed in her. Thank you for that."

Danny smiled absently at the mother-daughter moment before him. "I couldn't give up on her. She's my best friend."

Mr. Manson put a hand on Danny's shoulder and then hugged him awkwardly. "Thank you," he murmured.

Danny didn't see any point in continuing this strange waltz of 'Thank you' and 'It was nothing' so he just said, "You're welcome, Mr. Manson." Then, he cast one more look at Sam, decided she didn't need him right now while she was safely wrapped in her mother's arms, and backed out the door. Before the door swung completely shut, he saw Mr. Manson going to embrace the two most important women in his life. Smiling to himself, Danny walked the two blocks back to his house feeling happier than he had in a long time.

He almost whistled.

But, he didn't.

It never occurred to him that she might try to leave home in search of drugs.

But, she didn't.

X X X

Everyone **MUST** go to this website! **www. montana meth. org** If anyone is too lazy to remove the spaces, there's a link in my profile. But I have personally SEEN the sick shit Meth does to people. _Watch the commercials, read the print ads, and look at the pictures! _

And by all means, **spread the word**!

Questions, comments, concerns? (Oh, reviews telling me I'm fucked up for writing this will be ignored completely, so if that's what you're going to say don't even bother reviewing.)


	3. Clyde

The **national**** average recovery rate** for Meth is thought to be between **16-20%.**

X X X

When Sam was cleaning out her bag and reacquainting herself with her room, she found Clyde's number scrawled on a book of matches with a small message of _'Call me when he's gone.'_ Disgusted, she almost threw it away, but something made her keep it. She tucked it in a drawer, hidden beneath other things that she didn't want to look at—girly gauzy blouses and pink dresses and floral prints, a muddy bloody picture of her and Tucker and Danny.

…

A few weeks had passed and Sam only got better, but like Tucker she had changed. But unlike the changes in Tucker, Danny was concerned. She had thrown out all her Goth clothing and black make-up. She let her hair grow out. She started wearing jeans and red lipstick. It felt like she was hiding, hiding herself.

Sam was going out tonight. With Danny. Alone, together.

It had been three weeks and she was beginning to fear her time with him was growing short.

She was beginning to believe what Clyde had said to her.

_Danny ain't going to stay with you. _

_He'll run away screaming._

_Junkie whore._

_Junkie whore._

_Junkie whore._

"Shut up!" Sam screamed.

There was a soft knock on her door, but her mother didn't open it as she once would have. Instead, from the other side of the safe barrier, she called, "Sam, honey, are you alright?"

"Yeah," she said. "I'm fine."

She pulled a pair of jeans from her closet—admiring the emptiness since she had thrown away all her black and purple—and hitched them up over she sharp stabbing hips. Then, she shimmied into a tight red tank with a lacy black jacket over her bare shoulders. She checked her face in her mirror and put some powdery beige make-up over the scar on her face, hiding it. Then, she screwed the lid back on the jar of powder and slipped it back into her vanity drawer.

When she looked in the mirror again, she saw Clyde's face.

_I'll take good_ fucking _care of you_.

"No," she said.

Then, she grabbed her purse and practically ran from the room.

Danny was waiting for her on the porch and caught her arm as she dashed past him in a rush. "Whoa, whoa, Sam, where are you off to in such a hurry? You're not late," he told her with a smile. She fell into him, gripping his shirt in her hands and panting to catch her breath.

"Danny," she gasped out. "Please, don't ever leave me."

"I won't. Don't worry," he said and stroked her back.

After a moment, she caught her breath and pushed back from him. "Okay, thank you," she murmured. "Come on, let's go to the club." She tugged on his hand, pulling him down the stairs to his parent's Bradley Assault Vehicle. The Fenton's didn't believe in saving any money on gas and it was the bane of Danny's existence whenever he borrowed it. She hopped into the passenger seat and waited for Danny to get in. Then, she gripped his hand when he put it on the gear shift and squeezed tightly.

Danny smiled at her, but there was concern underneath it.

He put the car in drive and rumbled off to the club. The ground trembled in their wake. The growling V-8 engine competed with the base from the club as they drew closer, but the sad part was Sam wasn't sure which one was louder. Danny parked, rummaged around for his wallet, shoved it in his pocket, and gave her a grin. At the door, someone drew an X on the back of their hands with a thick black marker. Then, they were allowed in.

Inside, the lights were all vibrant and candied, flashing and flaring across the dance floor. People were dancing, moshing, screaming, laughing, and singing. There were no strobe lights and no beautiful holiday girls dancing in gauze and wings on a stage. No girl threw her arms around him and cooed, 'I love you!' There were no people sitting in the shadows… offering Meth, smoking Meth.

But Danny's heart still began to pound in his chest.

All he could think about was the rave, where it had all started, where he had first lost Sam. He remembered her purple-painted pretty lips around the sugary glass bowl, pursing and blowing white smoke. He remembered her dancing with him, how beautiful she looked, how confident, dark hair flying around her head like smoke. He remembered her hot feverish flesh, clammy, and then Tucker's chill seeping through his clothes. Her remembered 'Don't worry. I'm only going to do Meth once.'

He felt breathless, dizzy, wiped out all of the sudden. He grabbed Sam's shoulder, dragging her down as he slipped to his knees.

"Danny? What's wrong?" Sam's voice sounded far away like it did the night of the rave. "Danny?"

He gasped, desperate, smothering in this thick heated air. "I need to sit down. I'm dizzy," he whispered.

Sam got him under his arms and heaved him into a seat at the bar. The bartender narrowed his eyes, but then saw Danny's ghost-pale face and slid a glass of water across the smooth polished surface. Sam pressed against Danny's side.

He felt cold… like Tucker had.

"Danny?"

"I'm fine," he said with a forced smile. "Why don't you dance a little? I just need a minute."

"Okay," Sam said but she sounded unsure.

"Really, I'm fine…"

Then, Sam melted into the dancers just like she had the night of the rave, leaving Danny and Tucker behind. Out of Danny's sight, she felt a little lost. She wondered why he suddenly looked so sick, so traumatized. Had she done something? Her favorite song began to pulse through the speakers. Dipping her head back, she put her fingers through the cool of her long hair and began to dance. Danny once said that no one danced quite like her. Even though she had lost everything that had once been her, she still felt beautiful and brave and strong while she was dancing. She let her eyes slide closed and danced by herself in a club full of strangers while Danny was sick at the bar.

She should have expected something bad to happen.

What was she?

Fucking stupid?

"Hello Sam," a familiar voice said.

She felt lips on the shell of her ear and hot breath. Whirling, she met Clyde's crazy flinty eyes, dark hair sticking to her moist face, and felt afraid. She wanted Danny and she almost cried out for him, but Clyde put his hand over her mouth.

"Come with me, Sam. I have a present for you," he said over the sound of the music. Then, he took her hand in his and pulled her through the crowd. It was like being swept away by raging icy-cold water. Sam couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't feel. Clyde pushed open the door to the grimy bathroom, shoved Sam inside, and closed the door tightly behind them.

"What do you want?" Sam demanded.

Clyde smiled and pulled something beautiful and familiar out of his pocket. Sam's mouth watered and her finger itched to take the cool glass bowl from him. He grinned, put some Meth crystals into the bowl of the pretty glass pipe, and flicked his lighter a couple of times. Finally, the flame bloomed like a flower and he heated the crystals to sizzling, crackling, smoking. He help it out in his palm to Sam, but she backed away from him. She thought about Danny.

Clyde took a puff himself and blew the white smoke in her face. "How's it going with you and your boy-candy?"

Sam averted her gaze, thinking of Danny's pale haunted face sitting sick at the bar.

"Not good? He want you to be the old dead you?"

"Leave me alone," Sam said and turned towards the door. She wanted to leave. She was ready to go home, to sit in the dark and the cold in the park with Danny, to lay in her bed alone. She knew that if she stayed… she would smoke with Clyde.

"Want a hit?"

"No," she said but it was more like a sob.

"Come on, Sam. One hit won't hurt you. Just make it a celebration of your getting clean."

"No. I have to go."

"You remember how it makes you feel—strong, beautiful, confident. Don't you want that feeling for when you go back to your boy-candy?"

She shuddered, breath rattling in her lungs. Her white hands trembled as she took the glass pipe from him, put it to her lips, hesitated, and then inhaled. She blew out white smoke in his face and her mouth tasted sweet and soft. She let out a breath, a sigh.

"Good shit?"

"Yeah…"

"Still going to leave?"

She looked at Clyde, amethyst eyes glazed. "I should…"

"Will he miss you?"

"I think so."

"Come on, Sam, come with me. We can get more. You can stay with me."

_I'll take good _fucking _care of you._ His words slammed through Sam's head like she was being hit by a train, tearing her skull apart. She staggered into the door, feeling lightheaded, dizzy, and weak. "Get away from me," she whispered. "I have to go." She shoved through the door and back into the club.

"You'll be back, Sam. Girls like you always come back," Clyde shouted after her.

_Junkie whore_.

Sam couldn't find Danny. When warm hands grabbed her shoulders from behind, she let out a shriek of panic, but whirled to meet not Clyde's dark flinty eyes but Danny's soft ice-blue ones. He looked pale and concerned, but better than he had when she left him at the bar.

"Sam, what is it? What's the matter?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine." She spotted Clyde moving through the crowd and gripped Danny's wrists tightly. "Can we go? I want to leave."

"Sure, of course."

Sam had never been so happy to be back in the Fenton's gas guzzling behemoth in her life. When Danny cranked the snarling engine to life, she was so relieved. She watched the club shrinking in the rearview mirror and with it, her resolve. Already, she was thinking about getting her next hit. She was thinking about Clyde's number on that book of matches in her drawer, hidden under a hideous pink dress her mother had bought another lifetime ago. She was thinking about the drugs, about getting more, about smoking again.

Meth had already consumed her again.

…

That night, Sam snuck out. She found some black jeans and a black hoodie in the back of her closet. Then, she took the book of matches with Clyde's number on it and slipped out the window like she used to when she snuck out to meet Danny and Tucker late at night. Dropping down into the wet grass, her feet slipped out from under her, but she didn't even feel her father's favorite garden gnome spear into the back of her head, feel the warm blood running down her back. That was the cool thing about Meth—she didn't have to sleep, she didn't feel pain, she didn't feel bad, she didn't feel anything except the bugs underneath her skin.

Sam shoved her hands in her pockets, pulled her hood up over her head, and slouched her way down the road in the dark. She found a payphone outside a gas station and dialed Clyde's number. He picked up on the sixth ring.

"Hello?" he asked in a growling voice.

"Clyde, it's Sam."

She felt him smiling over the phone. "You want drugs?"

"Yes."

"Where are you?"

"The gas station on Broad Street."

"Alright, hang tight." Then, he hung up.

Sam didn't have to wait more than ten minutes before the muddy red pickup pulled up at the curb, the window rolled down, and Clyde peered out at her. He hung his hand out the window, a small baggie of white crystals hanging from his fingers.

"Hey girl. Fifty bucks," he said.

Sam fished some money out of her pockets and handed it over with shaking hands. "You're a dealer?"

Clyde gave her the bag. "Better than being a junkie whore." Then, he rolled up the window and pulled away, exhaust puffing in Sam's face and muffler snarling. His taillights disappeared in the darkness and Sam was alone again.

Since she didn't have a bowl and she was desperate, she went into the gas station, asked to use the bathroom, was rewarded with the key, and snorted two lines of meth on the filthy toilet seat. It didn't matter to her though. So long as she was getting high, she would have done it standing on her head in nine feet of water.

She stared at her face in the dirty smeary mirror. She saw her eyes, no longer purple but black from the dilation. She thought about Danny, sleeping in his bed at home, but she didn't care anymore. After all, he was going to leave her anyway.

…

For a week, Danny hadn't seen Sam. Her mother kept cutting him off at the door when he came to visit, saying she was sick and that she didn't want to be disturbed. He knew something was wrong because Mr. Manson was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing, catatonic, again. Danny went around the house, out of sight, and threw some rocks at Sam's window. There was no response. He eyeballed the sturdy wisteria vines climbing the side of the house up to Sam's window, steeled himself to what he might find, and clambered up to Sam's open window.

Her room was empty and neat.

Her bed was un-slept in.

It looked like she hadn't been home.

Danny's heart jumped into his throat with fear and sudden dread. He ran to the bathroom, but there was no blood on the vanity as there once was. The place was deserted, like a ghost house, empty and hollow and echoing with his memories of the past.

He leaped out the window, stumbled, and fell on his face in the grass. Staggering to his feet, he ran to Tucker's house as fast as his legs could carry him. He had to talk to Tucker, to tell him that Sam was gone again and that _he_ would once again be gone.

…

Tucker hated this.

He hated not knowing where Danny was.

He hated not knowing if Sam was alive.

He hated his parents and his teachers and his peers all looking at him with pity because his friends were gone again.

He hated this.

…

Danny put his face into the warm water had had cupped in his palms, as if enough warmth and soap could wash away his pain. But it didn't. It never would. He was beginning to wonder if his pain would ever stop. It was all supposed to get better when he finally found Sam, when he got her through rehab, when he got her clean. But now, his heart was even more broke, beating like some flat bloodless thing that should have been ground into the road by passing cars. Then, he combed his fingers through is dark hair and left the bathroom of his home.

His sister said something philosophical that was supposed to be soothing.

His mother tried to talk to him.

His father called his name.

But he didn't even hear them.

All he was thinking about was Sam.

And that she was gone… again!

Danny slammed his fist into the brick of his house. His knuckles cracked and split and blood ran between his clenched fingers and down his arm. He cradled his hand against his chest, letting the blood soak into his shirt. Then, he staggered down the steps and down the street to the usual dark alleys he trolled for Sam in.

…

Clyde looked out the window of the coffee shop across the street from where he had Sam set up on her corner. She was the perfect dog, the perfect junkie. She would do anything for drugs and he had taught her that her friends were her enemies. He had convinced her that her beautiful Danny was a liar and a fool. He convinced her that Tucker was sneaking Meth behind everyone's back and hiding it, refusing to share with her. Destroying her faith in Tucker was easy, but Danny had taken forever. She might have loved him if she hadn't fallen in with the wrong crowd, in with Clyde. It was hard to make her hate him, to make her believe that he had abandoned her, run from her, hated her in return.

Clyde sipped his coffee and watched Sam get into another car with some john.

But, now, she was broken and he could make her do anything he wanted, but sometimes, it wasn't as much fun to make her his puppet. He saw dear Daniel walking down the street, his blue eyes red-rimmed and downcast from searching for her day in and day out. Clyde wondered what she would do when faced with her love and hate.

Would she hurt him again?

Would she not even look his way?

Would she offer him herself?

Well, Clyde had grown tired of her anyway. She was just a _junkie whore_ and they were a dime a dozen. Let her do what she wanted before her meager measly little pathetic life was over. He was done with his dog, with his puppet. Let dear sweet Danny have his leftovers.

…

It had been two weeks.

He finally found her!

Sam was standing on the corner in the rain in a slinky little black dress with her dark hair pulled back from her battered face. Her eyes were like those of an opium-eater, glazed, far-seeing, seeing something different or that wasn't there. She was selling herself again, but it was raining and no one was buying.

"Sam!" Danny shouted and threw his arms around her cold stiff body. She felt like a corpse. "Sam!"

She turned those glazed eyes to him and her mouth curved into a small twisted smile. "Hello, Danny…" she said softly, then lifted her hard angry eyes to his. "Fuck you!" Then, she put both her hand on his chest and shoved him as hard as she possibly could.

Taken aback, he stumbled away from her until his back was against the wall and he was half-in the mouth of an alley. "Sam? It's Danny, your friend."

"You left me alone," she said sourly. Clyde's voice echoed in her head, telling her lies that spread like black mold through her body. Did she hate this young man before her who was once her friend? Did she love him? Did she owe him anything? "You left me alone!"

"You ran away! I've been looking for you! I've been looking everywhere!"

"You're a liar," she hissed.

"I would never lie to you. I'm your friend."

"You were going to leave me, anyway."

"I wasn't, Sam! Please, come back with me. Let me help you. Let me take care of you," Danny begged. "Let me take you home."

Clyde had given her a knife. Just in case she ever needed one—to hurt someone, to fend someone off, to peel an apple, or to slit her own throat. She kept it in the waistband of her slinky little dress belt in a small leather sheath. Now, she pulled it out and flashed it at Danny. The rain dripped off of it, shiny silver blood catching in the light.

Sam had hurt him once before. The scar in his shoulder throbbed at the memory. Danny raised his hands. "Sam, wait, you don't want to hurt me."

Her eyes were glazed and she took a step towards him. That knife dangled from her small white hand. "I hate you. This is your fault. If you had just stayed with me, I wouldn't be this way. But you had to go. You had to leave. I hate you! Fuck you!"

Danny could already envision his blood dripping of that silvery blade. He took a step back and the cold wall knocked against his spine. Panic caught in his throat.

"I hate you!" she shrieked. "I hate you! You left me!"

"Sam, wait!"

But she dove towards him and, in that moment before the knife sank into his body like a chip of misplaced ice, he saw her pupils were the size of olives.

She was high.

And she was going to kill him.

Danny's back slammed into the wall. He grabbed the knife in her hand, tried to hold it so she didn't tear him apart, but they were rolling around on the ground, grappling in the rain. She managed to yank it free and plunge it deep into his belly again. He tried to shove her off in blind animalistic panic. He just wanted to get away.

Sam was screaming.

She jerked the blade out again and stabbed through his hand when he tried to stop her. The muscles and sinews tore and ripped as the blade cut through the middle of his palm. Blood splattered on Danny's bare face, but was washed away quickly by the rain. Gasping in agony, he grabbed Sam's shoulders and tried to push her back. She lifted the knife and stabbed him twice more in the stomach and chest. Then, she stabbed him one final time in the center of his chest. The knife stuck between two of Danny's rib, caught there, and wouldn't come out. Sam jerked over and over, sobbing and screaming, but she couldn't get her knife out. Exhausted, she braced her hands on Danny's chest, heaving in ragged breaths.

Danny reached up, his fingers slick and red with his own lifeblood. He cupped her face in his hands and pulled her down. "Sam, please, I didn't leave you. You're high. You're not thinking clearly," he choked on his pain when her hand sank into a wound in his torso. "Please, I didn't leave you."

"You did. I was with Clyde. I was alone."

"You weren't. I was looking for you," he whispered. His voice was weak. He could see his blood washing away with the rain as quickly as it was seeping out of him.

He was dying.

He was dying.

His best friend had killed him.

His Sam had killed him and for what?

Because of drugs? Because she was high?

"Sam," he whispered. "I was looking for you. I lov—"

"You're a fucking liar."

"I'm not." He took her hand and put it to one of the wounds on his chest. "I don't have the time."

"Y-you're dying."

"Yeah…"

She didn't move, didn't get up to get him help. He could practically see her mind trying to wrap around the idea of his death. The rain was dripping off of her and into his face, aching cold in his wounds. He felt cold and black was beginning to seep in at the edges.

"Sam, I love you. I wouldn't have left you for… anything. You're my best friend."

She touched his face, but she couldn't tell if he felt cold or warm. She couldn't feel his pulse. She couldn't feel anything.

It was all gone, now.

All gone.

"Danny?" she whispered.

But his baby blues were sliding closed.

Something was seeping out from beneath his lashes. She couldn't tell if he was crying or if it was only rain.

"Danny, wait, don't go…"

There was the sounds of sirens in the distance and then flashing red-and-blue lights decorated the mouth of the alley. She heard a lot of shouting—"Put your hands up! Drop your weapon! Put your hands on your head. Now!" Sam bent over Danny's face, putting her forehead to his and breathing in his last breath. She still couldn't tell if his flesh was warm or cold. She couldn't tell if he was breathing. Was he already dead now?

He must have been.

Then, the police were pulling her off of him. Paramedics were swarming all over Danny. She couldn't see what was happening, but she did see Clyde waving at her from the window of the coffee shop across the street. She didn't think to blame him, to point him out, but would the police have listened to a _junkie whore_? They bottled her up in the back of a cruiser, cuffed and covered in blood.

"Danny," she whispered. Her chest felt empty. All of her felt empty.

She wanted another hit.

X X X

Meth heads do get that messed up. They would kill their best friend and still be wondering where their next hit was coming from. It's horrible.

Everyone **MUST** go to this website! **www. montana meth. org** If anyone is too lazy to remove the spaces, there's a link in my profile. But I have personally SEEN the sick shit Meth does to people. _Watch the commercials, read the print ads, and look at the pictures! _

And by all means, **spread the word**!

Questions, comments, concerns? (Oh, reviews telling me I'm fucked up for writing this will be ignored completely, so if that's what you're going to say don't even bother reviewing.)


	4. Tucker

If Meth is taken in large doses, it's frequent effects are irritability, aggressive behavior, anxiety, excitement, auditory hallucinations, and paranoia along with delusions and psychosis. Meth abusers tend to be violent. Mood changes are also common and the abuser can rapidly change from friendly to hostile. The paranoia produced by methamphetamine abuse results in suspiciousness, hyperactive behavior, and dramatic mood swings.

Meth appeals to drug abusers because it increases the body's metabolism and produces euphoria, increases alertness, and gives the abuser a sense of increased energy. High doses or chronic use of meth, however, increases nervousness, irritability, and paranoia. The extreme paranoia that meth abusers can experience is often associated with a distorted tendency toward violence.

X X X

It was cold and windy and Tucker hunched deeper into the coat he had taken from Danny's house. The cemetery was deserted, empty, cold. It was too cold for anyone to be out visiting dead relatives, dead friends, dead children and husbands and wives.

Tucker had never felt so alone in his life.

Actually, everyone felt alone.

The Mansons and the Fentons weren't talking anymore.

After all, Sam had killed Danny and all Danny had ever done was love her and try to save her.

The court case had been resolved quickly, open and shut. Sam was a junkie. She had hurt Danny before, had stabbed him in the shoulder. She had failed at rehab. She had Meth in her system. She was high when the cops had arrived. It was her knife they found in Danny's abdomen. It was Danny's blood all over her body. It was her prints on the accusing knife. She had killed her best friend. There was no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Tucker cradled his bouquet of white carnations against his chest and walked the narrow little path to the tombstone of his best friend. There, he knelt beside the grave and put his flowers in the little iron vase at the base of the tombstone. He brushed a few leaves off the neat horrible engraving.

_Daniel Fenton_

_1993-2011_

_Beloved son, brother, and friend_

Tucker sighed heavily and looked up at the thick grey blanket of clouds in the sky. It looked like snow. It felt like snow. God, he hoped it would snow. He hoped it snowed so much that it covered all the tombstones, all the dead bodies.

He hoped it covered Danny.

"Hey man," Tucker whispered. "I miss you, you know? It's hard without you. Sam's in prison. At least she'll be clean, right?" He chuckled sadly. "You did that, man. You saved her even if it cost you your life." He put his palm on the icy cold stone. "I miss you, Danny," he whispered.

Then, Tucker stood up, put his hands deep in the pockets of Danny's borrowed coat, ducked his head, and walked away.

There was nothing more he could do here.

Sam was clean, forced of Meth by the iron bars of prison.

Danny was dead. No one could do anything for him.

…

Sam wrote herself a letter, a lonely wretched letter form when she was a child.

_To Sam:_

_Even if my family doesn't understand me, my friends do. I love my friends. They'd do anything for me. Even when I'm mad, even when I'm bad, even when I'm sad, I want me to know that I am special and beautiful and loved. _

_From Sam._

…

Now, sitting alone in her little cell on the little bed, she was writing another letter.

_Dear Danny,_

_I'm so sorry._

_I'm so sorry._

_I'm so sorry._

_How could Meth have been more important to me than you? I'm so fucked up. I hate myself. I'm going to hate myself until the day I die and see you again… if I see you again. Do you think I'll get into Heaven with you or am I going straight to Hell?_

_I'm so sorry._

_I'm so sorry._

_I'm so sorry._

_From Sam._

She wanted to see Tucker, to talk to him, to see him. But Tucker wouldn't come to see her in prison, to look in the eyes of his best friend's killer and love… not even once, not to see her. It was fair to say he hated her, but that was okay. She hated herself, too.

X X X

Ending options:

**1.) There's a one-shot with an open ending, leaving it up to your imagination. **_Not Even Once_, the original version.

**2.) Danny can find her and bring her back and she can go through rehab, but** fail**. **In that case, you've just read it.

**3.) Danny can find her and bring her back and she can go through rehab and **succeed** and everyone lives **moderately** happily ever after. **In that case, look for _Not Even once: Success Version_. But the happy ending will not be posted until this version has ten reviews.

…

Everyone **MUST** go to this website! **www. montana meth. org** If anyone is too lazy to remove the spaces, there's a link in my profile. But I have personally SEEN the sick shit Meth does to people. _Watch the commercials, read the print ads, and look at the pictures! _

And by all means, **spread the word**!

Questions, comments, concerns? (Oh, reviews telling me I'm fucked up for writing this will be ignored completely, so if that's what you're going to say don't even bother reviewing.)

**I have the happy ending all written and ready to go, but I want ****ten reviews**** on this story ****before**** I post the happy ending version. **


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